


oh my darling, meadowsweet

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28064760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: Oh my darling, meadowsweetLay me to down to sleep, to sleep
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #012





	oh my darling, meadowsweet

The color of blood against snow was a shocking, deeply disturbing contrast, and in another strange and opposite way it was impossibly entrancing. The bard seemed to find it hard to pull his gaze away from where he was caught watching his own warm blood spatter over the untouched layer of snowfall and ice. He was on his knees, buried to the thighs in the snowdrift, and all around him was an aura of carnage. 

There were twelve wolves, in a sort of strange arc around him, as if each decided to attack from a different direction, creating a clockwork of death. In the center was him, Jaskier, who Geralt had tried so hard to protect with his blade. He had, of course, failed, because for some godforsaken reason Destiny was against him on this day. 

Geralt wrenched his sword out from the throat of the warg who had gotten Jaskier, and the thirteenth body fell with a splatter of yellowing blood, the stench of it rotting and stomach-churning. But of course, no sight was as terrible as his Jaskier falling unconscious against the snow in slow motion before him. He fell into the crimson-snow of his own blood, and when Geralt thrust his sword away and went to lift the bard into his arms, the snow stuck to his cheek like a dusting of blush. 

“Bard.” Geralt tried weakly, ignoring his own gaping stomach wound in favor of pressing against the twin slashes in Jaskier’s chest, his other hand holding him tight against the Witcher. “ _ Bard _ . Wake up, please, please open your eyes.”

Jaskier did not wake up. Blood pooled up in the shallow gashes and dripped down Jaskier’s sides, pattering against the snow again. 

Geralt could not tell if his chest was moving or not. 

Every movement tore pain through his body, originating from that open gash through his armor. Even in his most precious moments his armor did not protect him, and his swords could not protect what he loved most. He trudged through the snow, passing the bodies of the wolves he had slain, holding Jaskier against him so that the man’s limp head was tucked against Geralt’s neck.

If the bard was still alive, he would need to be warm. Geralt paused, pulling off his cloak and laying it over Jaskier’s back. 

“There.” He whispered. “You can open your eyes, I promise I’ll keep you warm.”

Jaskier did not open his eyes.

Geralt powered on, sights set on the long path back to the snowed-in town he’d received the contract from. It had taken the two of them near an hour to make it out here. 

They could not possibly make it in time, and yet the Witcher did not give up.

-

He thought back to a time before this moment. A warmer time, when Geralt had awoken staring up at the wooden ceiling of an inn. Terrible pain wracked his abdomen, and he groaned as he pulled his weary body up to sit, one arm clasped over his stomach feeling out a patchwork of bandages and beneath it, stitching and hard raw scar skin. 

“Jaskier.” He called out, anguished, and immediately there was the man at himself, a soothing presence running soft palms down his arm. 

“Hush, hush. I’m right here, Geralt. You went and got yourself hurt again.” The bard murmured, pushing Geralt gently back down to lay still before settling himself beside him, perched at the edge of the bed with his hands rubbing into the tense muscle of his arm. 

“The contract- the Fiend-”

“Is dead. You killed it with one final strike before dropping down yourself, giving me a heart attack.” Jaskier told him, a frown in his voice that Geralt couldn’t bear to see. Instead, he closed his eyes tight and turned his head away. 

“You had to carry me back.”

“Yes, but it’s no such burden if it’s you.”

Geralt relaxed, just a bit, and that was enough for the bard to be happy. Or, somewhat, at least. A hand made its way into Geralt’s hair. 

“Are you hurting very badly?” He asked.

“Yes,” Geralt admitted, “but you did a good job stitching me. Thank you.”

Feelings were difficult at first. The longer he spent loving the beautiful bard beside him, the easier it became to expose his raw, beating heart. After all, Jaskier would never touch him in a way that hurt him. 

“You’re welcome, as always.” Jaskier told him softly, carding through his hair and fanning it out on the pillow. “You need more sleep if you’re to heal quickly, though. Will you sleep for me?”

Geralt gave a noncommittal huff. “I might need a song.”

Jaskier feigned dramatism for the slightest moment. “Oh, whatever shall I do? My lover requires a song, and I am bereft…”

Geralt chuckled, and felt Jaskier’s hands stilling as he cleared his throat, and began to sing.

_ Oh my darling, buttercup-touched _

_ Plant roses on to blush, to blush _

_ Sprinkle dirt across my bed _

_ Speak what must not be left unsaid _

_ Oh my darling, lavender-eyes _

_ Let not me cry, me cry _

_ Press a kiss upon my crown _

_ Beneath the forest I’ll be found _

_ Oh my darling, meadowsweet _

_ Lay me to down to sleep, to sleep _

_ Tuck the grass o’er my limbs- _

-

Geralt’s knees went out from under him and both he and the bard went falling down, Jaskier landing on his back with a thump in the snow, eyes flying open and the most horrible sound leaving his lips. 

“GERALT!” The bard cried, tears springing to frozen lashes. “It hurts, it hurts! Oh, god! It hurts!”

Geralt got to his knees, one hand slipping beneath Jaskier’s head to protect it from the snow, the other against his chest. There was so little, so very little he could even do.

“I know.” Geralt whispered, voice broken. “I can’t make it stop, Jaskier, I don’t know how.”

Jaskier screamed again, muscles twitching valiantly as if they wanted to thrash out but lacked all strength. “ _ Ger-alt _ !”

Panicking, breathing in quick huffs of breath, Geralt reached over and pulled the fallen cloak over his bard’s body again. Keep him warm. Keep him safe from the cold. 

“I don’t know what to do.” The Witcher said again, though his words were drowned out by more sobs and screams. 

But he did, in one small moment, realize there was something he could do. When Jaskier had cared for him, seen him hurting and tired, and sung him to sleep to make it all better. So that when Geralt opened his eyes again…

When  _ Jaskier _ would open his eyes again…

He would be well, wouldn’t he?

Geralt held his bard, and he began to sing.

_ Oh my darling, buttercup-touched _

_ Plant roses on to blush, to blush _

_ Sprinkle dirt across my bed _

_ Speak what must not be left unsaid _

_ Oh my darling, lavender-eyes _

_ Let not me cry, me cry _

_ Press a kiss upon my crown _

_ Beneath the forest I’ll be found _

_ Oh my darling, meadowsweet _

_ Lay me to down to sleep, to sleep _

_ Tuck the grass o’er my limbs- _

Geralt faltered. He could not remember the last line. 

“Jaskier.” He whispered, voice broken as he placed a hand on his shoulder and gently shook the bard. “Jaskier, I don’t know how to finish the song.”

Warm tears hit the snow, and Jaskier’s pale cheek. The bard had gone dead silent sometime in the middle of the song, and Geralt had not stopped to notice until this terrible, awful moment where the deepest fears and the deepest realizations crept inside of his heart.

“Jaskier, please wake up, I don’t know how to do it. Not without you, please, darling.”

Jaskier was as still as a statue in winter.

“Please, please!” Geralt shook him harder, tears falling faster. “Jaskier!”

No matter how loud the Witcher shouted, the bard would not awake, would never awake again. Too much blood had been spent coloring the white flats crimson. Sobbing, Geralt covered Jaskier’s body with his own. The least he could do was to continue keeping his beloved warm. Fresh snow fell against Geralt’s back and cloaked both himself and the man beneath him in a cool blanket of white. 

Jaskier was resting now. And Geralt, Geralt soon would too. 


End file.
